


P is for Porn

by Kantayra



Series: The Masters and Doctors in the Matrix [10]
Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (1963)
Genre: Alliteration, Banter, Bickering, Humor, M/M, Writing Exercise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:54:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24073288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kantayra/pseuds/Kantayra
Summary: “Ah,” the Doctor said ruefully, “parting is such sweet—”“Save it for next time,” the Master gave him a goodbye peck. “You pick the letter, and I’ll bring my thesaurus and a digital copy of the OED.”“Will you really?” the Doctor asked hopefully.“Promise.”In which the Sixth Doctor and the Master attempt to have sex using only the letter P, because they are stubborn old idiots who would absolutely do something that ridiculous. And then actuallyenjoyit.
Relationships: Sixth Doctor/The Master (Ainley), The Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who)
Series: The Masters and Doctors in the Matrix [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1592659
Comments: 14
Kudos: 49





	P is for Porn

**Author's Note:**

> When I wrote the summary quote in the last fic, I just meant it as a throw-away joke. Alas, during editing, I randomly wondered whether it would even be _possible_ to write an entire sex scene that way, and now here we are with the alliterative porn that absolutely no one ever wanted or asked for.

“Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers,” the Master recited in a dull monotone, arms crossed over his chest.

The Doctor gave him a frustrated look. “Please, play _properly_!”

“This plan is positively preposterous!”

“But you _will_ pursue it with your peculiar pattern of persistence?” The Doctor looked so _entreating_ , with those big, blue eyes.

The Master sighed. His dignity really was a lost cause when it came to the Doctor. “Perhaps,” he conceded, “only to particularly propitiate _you_ and your penchant for purple prose.”

“A perfectly plausible purpose for a person of your perverted proclivities!” The Doctor turned smug once again at his little victory, stuck out his chest, and strutted about the bedroom with his thumbs under his braces. It was clearly going to be one of _those_ nights.

“For precisely what period do you purport to persist in this particular pedantry?” the Master asked warily.

“Pedantry? Pah! Plenty of personages on your persuasion would pay to play with a paramour of my princely pulchritude!” The Doctor ran a self-aggrandising hand through his hair and cocked his head at what he undoubtedly thought was an attractive angle.

Ah, joy. Once the Doctor got started on an alliterative string of vanity, he could go on for _hours_. The only defence was to strike back, twice as hard. “Post putting up with your planetary peregrinations?” the Master demanded, because his selves had _some_ self-esteem, honestly. “The preening and primping like a proud peacock? Or perhaps you postulate that we would praise you for your prancing and persistent prattling? That I prefer your pompous pontification?” The Master had started his rant off as a bit of joke, but by the end he felt quite flushed.

The Doctor’s cheeks reddened as well, although knowing him, it was most likely from arousal rather than irritation. “A pathetic procession of put-downs, to be predicted from a paragon of pure perfidy!” he declaimed. “A pedestrian parody of proper perspicacity. Perceive the pedigree of a practiced professional!”

“Professional?” the Master snorted. “Professional pretentious popinjay, perhaps.”

“Poppycock! Pure puerile pugilism from a pusillanimous profligate!” Oh, there was this Doctor’s characteristic bluster.

The Master arched one eyebrow. “If part of this is planned to pique my prurient proclivities, your prospects are passing poor.”

“Don’t be pernickety,” the Doctor backtracked, sidling up closer to him and laying one hand on the Master’s chest. “I can be perfectly persuasive pursuantly,” he said in a low rumble.

The Master gave him his best aloof glare. “Prove it.”

A slight smile softened the Doctor’s mouth, and his hand slid down and around to the small of the Master’s back to guide him toward the bed. “If you’ll permit? Please, plant your posterior on the pallet.”

The Master rolled his eyes at the sheer ridiculousness of _that_ , but did as asked. “Posterior parked. And?” he demanded.

The Doctor’s voice went very low indeed, and he leaned forward over the Master, his hand now warm on the Master’s thigh. “We partake of our personal palaestra…” he seduced. Badly.

“ _Palaestra_?” the Master complained, although he couldn’t think of a better substitute for sex, or anything else wrestling-related, for that matter. “A particularly pathetic proxy…”

“Poetic permissiveness!” the Doctor defended himself. “Perforce, the only proposition of which to partake.”

“Precisely why pursuing this plan permanently is pointless.” For one glorious moment, the Master thought that just _maybe_ he had won, and they could enjoy the rest of the evening with far less cognitive frustration.

He’d forgotten, of course, that this was the _Doctor_ : ‘frustration’ might as well have been his middle name.

“I propose,” the Doctor continued on without hesitation, “that proximity will provoke our pent-up passion. Please, place your palm on my, er…”

In no universe known or unknown could the Master let the very obvious word go unremarked on. “ _Penis_?” he suggested snidely.

The Doctor glared at him. “Pointless profanity! Perhaps…phallus?”

“Pause, pause!”

The Doctor halted his amorous advances, looking rather startled. “Pardon?”

“ _Phi_ is permissible?” the Master objected.

“Perfectly!”

“Is the function not phonic phrasing?” the Master over-f’ed the fricatives as much as he could to demonstrate the flaw in the Doctor’s reasoning.

The Doctor considered this for a moment, before yielding. “…Ah, point proven. Precept!” he declared dramatically, index finger raised into the air. “Phi is prohibited; only P is permitted.”

The Master inclined his head gratefully. “Please proceed, then.”

“Yes, ahem. Place your palm on my…package.” The Doctor stumbled around rather comically before landing on that last word.

“‘Package’?” The Master would’ve snickered more, but the Doctor rested the Master’s hand on the object in question, and then the Master had more significant matters to consider. “Ah well, that’s…palatable. Pre-plumped, I perceive. Palpably permissive today, hmm?”

The Doctor squirmed attractively in his trousers when the Master gave him a little squeeze, and went gratifyingly incoherent. “Ah…I…yes, well…”

Interesting. This might turn out to be fun after all…

“I’m persisting. _Patiently_ ,” the Master teased.

“Ah, of course. Pardon my peccadillo.” The Doctor shook his head as if to get his brain back on track. “You have a particularly pleasant presence. Perhaps if you pulled off my pants and…”

“Pressed my pinkie against your perineum?” The Master took both liberties in one swift motion, shoving the Doctor onto his back at the same time.

“ _Yes_!” the Doctor exclaimed, and let his legs fall wide and inviting to either side.

“And then prodded your pink pucker?” the Master continued relentlessly.

“M-M…” the Doctor gasped weakly, nearly driven to shouting the Master’s name already, at a mere bit of linguistic stimulation, how very _intriguing_ …

The Master tsked at the Doctor’s error. “Only P is permitted!” he reminded him mockingly.

The furious red in the Doctor’s cheeks was really quite becoming. “Pernicious prat! I…”

The Master took that moment to crook his fingers within the Doctor’s body, and the Doctor’s objections disintegrated into mindless moans of ecstasy. Yes, the Master was starting to rather enjoy this little game the Doctor had set out for them.

“Your passage,” the Master breathed right against the Doctor’s ear, leaning over him as his finger continued to tease the Doctor’s most sensitive nerve clusters, “is particularly permeable, I perceive. Would you prefer my pecker?”

“Oh, yes!”

“Prostrate and prepare yourself, then,” the Master demanded darkly.

The Doctor rolled over onto his stomach so very obligingly.

The Master fought back a growl at the sight. “Peel off your precious petticoats, too.”

“ _Petticoats_?!” The Doctor recovered enough mental integrity to defend his horrific fashion sense, at least, so the Master clearly needed to work harder to turn him into a complete gibbering mess.

“A proper portrayal of your painfully prominent pageantry,” the Master said, because no insult was too great for the Doctor’s chosen attire.

“Why, you…in—”

The Master hushed him with an exclamation before the Doctor could break alliterative character. “Only P’s!” he corrected. “And my, what a pretty picture you paint, prone with your posterior propped up and”—the Doctor slid his first finger inside himself, and that really was just _lovely_ —“personally pierced.” The Master swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry.

“Pray tell?” the Doctor said, egging him on.

Slowly, the Master unfastened his trousers, eyes still fixated on where the Doctor’s two fingers now slid with ease in and out of that hungry little hole. “Plead for my prick,” he demanded.

“Wh-What?” the Doctor stammered. “I’ll never p-p…” He trailed off with a deep, satisfied hum when the Master’s fingers replaced his, and began circling his entrance tortuously.

“Problem?” the Master taunted him. “Propositions passing you by in your passionate position?”

“Pl…” The Doctor wanted it so badly but clearly was fighting it at the same time.

 _Exactly_ how the Master loved to have him. “Pardon?”

“ _Please_ ,” the Doctor’s lust finally overcame his ego, and he yielded himself to the Master’s clutches entirely.

“Oh, my pretty, your pleas are pure poetry.” The Master crawled up onto the bed so that he knelt between the Doctor’s legs. “If you’ll permit me to”—he aligned himself with the Doctor’s entryway—“penetrate you upon my p…”—he stuttered a bit as his erection slid inside, all the way to hilt in one smooth stroke, but recovered himself almost immediately—“pillar.” He eased in and out with several deep, firm strokes, testing the waters. Such a ready and willing Doctor, this one always was, despite his bluster! “A perfectly primed passage,” he savoured his gloating, “pulsating pre-emptively purely for me.”

“Y-Yes, you feel—” The Doctor writhed delightfully against him, clearly needing more.

The Master tutted. “Only P!” And, oh, this was _wonderful_! Fucking the Doctor and calling him out for being _wrong_ at same time? This might just be the best game the Doctor had conceived of, to date.

“Ah… I…” the Doctor managed, barely coherent, crying out in time with each of the Master’s thrusts.

“Poor penitent,” the Master mock-cooed at him. “Perplexed? Permit me to persist in your place?”

“Y-Yes…”

Something wild and dangerous uncoiled inside the Master at the Doctor’s submission, and he began thrusting into the Doctor’s eager body with force. “You are pierced precisely upon my prick,” he said with his mouth directly against the Doctor’s ear, “practically pouring perspiration. If I pound you – ah – _thus_ , you ply me with such persuasive pangs. Permit me to progress post-haste, pummelling you to the pommel with primal power.”

The Master had his words and movements in sync now, and each P signalled a more forceful thrust. The Doctor had figured this out and trembled at each one.

“Or should I proceed to pillage your pert peaches, which are so perfectly pervious to my protrusion? Perforce, I’ll plough your plumbing instead, plunder and probe and poke your prostate. Push through your pleasing plasticity, and pump and piston you into paroxysms.”

Beneath the onslaught, the Doctor could do nothing but moan feeble little “ohs” and “ahs” and “unghs” that the Master savoured eliciting from that arrogant throat.

“Pardon?” the Master asked, slowing to a gentle rocking, and then stilling entirely. “I can only partly perceive your plaintive pleas. Would you prefer I pulled out?” He moved to do so.

The Doctor reached back to clutch at his arse, halting his efforts. “N-N…” he struggled to find the words.

“That's not a P.” The Master shivered with delight at getting to correct the Doctor _again_. The movement caused his cock to shift within the Doctor’s body in a way that made the Doctor absolutely _writhe_ with need.

“Perhaps,” the Master conceded magnanimously, because it felt absolutely _wonderful_ when the Doctor did that, “you’d prefer if I placed my palm upon your prick again? Palpitated and polished it. Pet it to procure its pinnacle?” He reached around to begin stroking the Doctor’s erection, at the same time thrusting once more into the Doctor’s body, his hand in time with his cock.

“Y-Yes…”

“You’re so placid. Purring like you’re putty in my palms. And what if I pivot my pelvis just _so_ , the penultimate plunge before you peak at my prowess?” A final thrust, and then right on command:

“ _Master_!”

“Not a P, but I’ll p-permit it to pass”—the Master’s own thoughts started to fail him at the sound of his name from that haughty mouth and the rhythmic clenching of the Doctor’s body as he orgasmed—“a-as I’ve just provoked you into perpetual paradise, and I plan to perfuse you with my pearly payload”—a final ecstatic cry—“ _now_!”

A pause.

A period of prolonged peace.

And then:

“Have you petered out permanently?” The words intruded into the Master’s dreamy after-sex haze, with the Doctor’s standard smugness.

The Master groaned and rolled over so he fell back into the sheets. “Doctor, if you don’t stop with the alliteration after _that_ , then I don’t know what I can do further to satisfy you.”

“Perhaps a peck?” the Doctor suggested, still looking far too chuffed at himself.

“Oh, fine.” The Master accepted the very welcome kiss.

“And post-coital pampering?” The Doctor nudged him onto his stomach and began digging his thumbs into the Master’s back muscles in an absolutely delightful massage.

“Well, if you _insist_ …” the Master conceded graciously.

“Post that peerless performance? I’ll perform any pleasure you prefer.”

‘“Will you,” the Master asked archly, “stop using the letter P?”

“Perhaps,” the Doctor didn’t do so at all, infuriatingly.

## Hard Mode: Today’s Epilogue was brought to you by the Letter 'X'

“ _No_.”

“You…er, xylophagous…”

“‘Wood-eating’? Please tell me that is not the worst euphemism for a blowjob that I’ve ever heard.”

“…um… _xenophobe_!”

“Just give it up.”

“If you’ll just e ** _X_** amine my xiphoid…um…”

“It’s hopeless.”

“…er…xenolith?”

“Well, that’s unappetising.”

“I…uh…”

“Yes?”

“Oh, bugger all! Come here, you.”

“Well, all right. But only because you asked without the damned letter X.”

**Author's Note:**

> In addition to being absurd, this fic is also possibly the hardest thing I've ever written. The P-dialogue only amounts to ~800 words, but took me about 10 times as long to write as usual. For anyone curious about the mechanics, the exercise went like this:
> 
> 1) Go through the entire P-section of the dictionary, picking out words that might be usable. Get to Ph and spend a long time debating whether I can use those words, and then decide to have the Doctor and Master go through the same pedantic debate in the fic: bonus!  
> 2) Sort the list into categories based on sections I knew would be in the fic (insults, compliments, sex euphemisms, etc.). Find the most universally useful word of them all - "Perhaps" - because it is literally the only connecting P-word I've got, whee!  
> 3) Write out the dialogue-only scene using regular language. The easiest part!  
> 4) Go back through, replacing words with P-equivalents. When necessary, rewrite whole sections to work around the fact that no P-equivalent exists.  
> 5) Once done, go back through again, this time writing the descriptive actions. Bonus challenge: for the descriptive text, don't use the letter P _anywhere_. (This turned out not to be too much of a challenge. The only thing that tripped me up was the word "up"; there were occasional mental gymnastics to avoid that one.)  
> 6) By the end of the whole process, suffer a weird cognitive side-effect where, for a couple of days, my brain could not process any word that started with the letter P. (At one point, I was reading something that had the word "potential", and my brain immediately started processing it as "'Have potency'? Can I use that to describe sex?" before realizing that, no wait, that's a perfectly common, everyday word.)
> 
> The epilogue came from the fact that, after I actually managed something vaguely coherent with P, I worried that I'd picked too easy a letter, and immediately started wondering if the same thing would be possible with a really hard letter like X. It wasn't. :P


End file.
